Mastectomy
by ArouraLeona
Summary: What if the mystery of Levy's shrinking bust is easily answered, but somewhat tragic? This is sort of a shout out to all the women (some I know, some I don't) who struggle with scars (such as those that come with mastectomies and other surgeries) and their sexual identity. To women who sometimes forget they are beautiful. One-shot. Levy (Ga/le) Enjoy.


Mastectomy

Not many people know. Those who do, keep quiet about it. Oh, I don't know, maybe it comes up in conversation. Maybe _some_ of the girls mentioned it to _some_ of the boys, and they talk about it still. But not everyone knows. And no one brings it up when I'm in the room.

At first, I hated myself. The doctors said that feeling was normal. Especially for one so young. I grew to accept it; it happened. In a way, I earned it. Then Wendy came and I thought about how she could have fixed it if she...

Not her fault. Not my fault. But the self-loathing began again. Didn't help that I was starting, for the first time in my life, to really like a man. To physically yearn after him. His piercing eyes. His dark hair. His large hands. Slowly but surely, I was starting to want him, but the thought of him seeing me … I was embarrassed. Ashamed. Compared to all of the women we both knew, compared to their powerful femininity, I was nothing. But I wanted him, and eventually, he started looking at me like he might want me, too.

I started to change. I needed to take myself back. To accept myself again.

Each morning before I dress, I take a good hard look in the mirror. The scars aren't as bad as they were. The surgery was well done. As only partial removal was necessary on each breast, I've been told that there is even a possibility of regrowth. I've been offered magical spells to "fix the problem."

I'm always torn. Yes. Before the injury, my breasts were larger, and unmarked. I do miss that. I miss the confidence in that. After the injury, they are almost non-existent. I have little pads that I can insert into my bras to disguise the change. Originally I used them all of the time. Even when I slept, so that I might forget.

I've noticed … I do that less and less, as time passes.

One of the reasons I was chosen for the S-Class exams in x784 was because of a mission I took not long after the Fantasia fiasco. The mission that marked me. Jet and Droy fell at a critical moment during a fight against a venomous creature, who was attacking a small jungle community. With only an instant to think, I brought up a rune shield – learned after working Freid's spells during Fantasia – to protect those behind me.

I threw _FIRE_ and _WHIRLWIND_ at my attacker, but before it perished, it managed to spit a small measure of its venom at me. Hitting me in the chest.

The people I saved came to my aid quickly. Once Jet revived, he got me to a hospital in a nearby town as quickly as he could. But, by then, much of the damage was already done. The surface tissue burned beyond repair and the venom slowly soaking deeper into the remaining tissue. I was, by then, unconscious, so a choice – the right choice; I blame no one – was made to remove every bit of poisoned flesh, plus a tiny bit more. Just to be safe.

Initially, I was just grateful to be alive. Grateful I saved so many with so little injury to innocents. And I still am! Don't get me wrong, I'm still grateful for that. I'm still very proud of what I managed to do, despite the injury. And most days, I look at myself in that mirror and think of it as more of a victory than a deformation.

But...

When he touches me – hand on my shoulder, fingers in my hair – I wonder what he'll think. _If_ I show him. I don't know if I'll show him. I don't know if he wants that much, but I think he might, and when he sees – _if_ he sees – what will his reaction be?

With shorts on and my top completely off, I look almost like a boy. I have so little left that I might be a boy. A boy with injuries, but cover my face, hide my hips, I still resemble a boy.

Without nipples. Only the slightest bit of softness. And the scars that cover the lower half.

If he sees, will he do all of the things I sometimes dream of him doing? I don't think size is an issue. He saw me before the injury, and he knows me now, after. He knows my general shape, and that hasn't driven him away.

I would tell him, of course, before he saw. Prepare him.

But if I were to stand before him. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere alone. If I were to remove my shoes. My head scarf. My dress. That wouldn't be new. He has seen me in bathing suits and similar somewhat revealing outfits.

But if, then, I reached behind my back, unhooking my bra. If I lifted my hands, each to a strap – left hand, right shoulder; right hand, left shoulder. If I pulled the straps down the length of my arms...

I would hesitate then. I know I would. I would, arms still crossed, linger at that last second, when I was still covered, and my vanity – my heart – still protected.

What would he do then? Would he watch, waiting, letting me make that final move? Would he step forward and with his own hands pull mine away? Looking at me, looking fully at me as I have wanted so much for him to do. As I have feared so much that he will do.

He would look. He would see. What then? Would he change his mind about being with me and leave? Would he stay, but look away? Dim the lights? Avoid touching?

Or would he brush my rippled, slightly discolored scars with his calloused fingertips? Curiosity driving him. Wonder. Respect. _Pride_. An unflagging desire, not dampened by my deformity. Would he bend or kneel or lift me up so that he could touch me with his lips and taste me on his tongue?

Would he lay me under him – him over me – seeing me with those red eyes? Scars and all. Caressing me with those strong hands? Scars and all.

Would I be a woman to him, scars and all?

I dream of his rejection. I dream of his acceptance. I dream of him. And me. It won't be long, I think, before I have to tell him. I can't be the only one who feels the potential for passion burning between us.

I worry, but I am no longer ashamed. I no longer hate myself. I want him. I love him. And I am worthy of want and love in return.

The time will come, and I will share my secret. He will look, or he won't. He will touch, or he won't. He will accept, or he won't.

I dream he will. He will. He will.

* * *

**Author's note**: I'm sure there are others who have felt it necessary to explain Levy's growing – shrinking – change in the chest area. Every arc seems to deduct a cup size from her, while adding cup sizes to the other females in the guild. She has more in the manga (I think) than the anime, but it's still not where she was back in the first chapter.

So. This is a random little, completely unfounded, explanation for the difference. Plus some romance!

As another note: I know a person or two who is uncomfortable with their own beauty for the sake of their scars. I love you, my person or two. You are beautiful, my person or two. And you, dear reader, you too are beautiful.


End file.
